


The You And Whose Army Job

by Liviapenn



Category: Leverage, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Chromatic Character, Crossover, Gen, POV Outsider, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-07
Updated: 2009-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviapenn/pseuds/Liviapenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is how you talk to women?" says Hardison from the peanut gallery. "Really?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The You And Whose Army Job

**Author's Note:**

> All Shrift's fault, although she was more in favor of a Ronon-Eliot matchup. (Which I agree would be incredibly hot. Someone should totally write that! *points*) Thanks to wychwood and corinna_5 for very helpful comments.

A petite brunette with a big leather laptop bag slung over her shoulder approaches Eliot's vantage point behind the brownstone's stoop at about five minutes after eleven. She's still ten paces away when her shoulders go back slightly. She's noticed Eliot, waiting in the shadows of the stairwell. Eliot blinks, impressed. Lady looks like a civilian, but she's either got good instincts or one hell of a good eye.

The lady's gaze passes over him, assessing him quickly, and she lifts her chin and strides past. She's not ignoring his presence, the way a woman might if she were nervous. Eliot can see that she's aware of him in the way she holds her hands, and more than that-- that she's ready for him if he tries anything. Or thinks she is, anyway.

Eliot studies her as she passes, getting more intrigued by the second. Her face is calm and a little stern, but there's definitely a disconnect between her clothes and the way she carries herself. She's dressed like an office drone, soft and nondescript, in fitted slacks with a matching blazer and a fuzzy cashmere sweater underneath. Her hair is pinned back in an elaborate twist, and her brown suede ballet flats have little bows on the toes. But it's clearly camouflage, as obvious to anyone with eyes as Parker in a bridesmaid's dress or Hardison all thugged up. This lady is nobody Eliot knows, but whoever she is, she walks like a fighter.

Then she's past him, and he reluctantly drags his gaze away from the rear view and glances up the block again. Eliot's _actual_ target habitually leaves his apartment sometime between ten-thirty and eleven-fifteen on a weekday, going out for a late dinner after work. If he doesn't decide to go out in the next ten minutes, he won't be coming out tonight at all. Eliot has a feeling this isn't gonna be his night.

There's a sudden crash from behind him and Eliot spins, glancing up the street. He raises his eyebrows, surprised. A scruffy-looking crackhead is making a break for it with the brunette's shoulder bag. That crash was her getting shoved against one of those big plastic trash cans and knocking it over. Half a block back, she's rolling to a crouch, pushing herself up and coming after him.

"Stop!" she shouts after the mugger. "Stop now!" And that's not a plea. That's a _warning_.

"Eliot, trouble?" Nate asks over Eliot's comm. Eliot grunts a negative, edging towards the sidewalk. He's almost tempted to let the guy past-- the lady is fast, she's only picking up speed, and she looks like the kind of gal who knows what she's gonna do when she gets where she's going.

But that wouldn't be gentlemanly, now would it? And the mark probably isn't going to show tonight anyway. And also, Eliot is curious. So he steps out onto the sidewalk and clotheslines the guy. Not too hard, he doesn't want to crush his windpipe or anything. Too much fuss. Besides, the lady just might be law. The guy goes down hard on his back, spluttering, and Eliot steps back, letting the guy get up and take a swing at him. He misses, of course, and then the lady's there. She jumps in, grabbing the crackhead by the shoulder and spinning him around, then jerks her bag right out of his hands.

"Bitch!" snarls the mugger and takes a swing at her as she drops the strap of her bag over her head, settling it on her hip. She dodges easily, but Eliot's already on the move.

"Oh hell no," he says, reaching out to grab a handful of the guy's jacket and drag him out of her zone. But he misses, because the lady's already got the guy by the collar, yanking his head down to smack into her knee, then using the momentum of his recoil to spin him face first into the pillar of the stoop. She doesn't bother restraining his hands-- they're pressed against his face, blood from his nose already beginning to leak through his fingers-- she just pats him down like a pro, quick but thorough. Finding a knife in his back pocket, she flips it over her shoulder into the bushes, then steps back, towards the edge of the sidewalk.

What the hell is that fighting style? Eliot can't place it. He can't-- what the _hell_. Who _is_ she?

He does notice that she's keeping a weather eye on him, not turning her back or getting close enough for him to grab. He snorts as it hits him: she thinks Eliot and the mugger are working together, running a job on her. Well, that'll teach him to be a white knight. But it's not like he can really blame her. A random crackhead grabs her bag, and a good-looking hero steps out of the shadows just in time to get it back? Of course it's a setup. Even Eliot can hardly believe it's not, and he actually knows better.

The fact that it's exactly what _he'd_ assume in her situation... well, if Eliot wasn't sure before that she's a player, he is now. He hopes she's not after the diamonds. There's enough players in the current game already.

The crackhead coughs and pushes himself away from the pillar, one hand going to his back pocket for the knife. His eyes widen when he realizes it's gone, and he starts towards Eliot and the lady again. Eliot snaps a fist out. Cracking him once in the cheekbone, he bares his teeth, giving the guy the crazy eyes. "Get outta here! Come on!"

The crackhead snarls, and Eliot raises his eyebrows: really? Seriously? The guy finally frickin' decides to cut his losses and turns, taking off down the block. Eliot growls after him, but lets him go, turning to the lady. "You all right, ma'am?"

"I am fine," she says, one eye still half on him as she goes through the contents of her bag. A civilian would probably just trust that everything was still there. The crackhead only had his hands on it for twenty seconds, maybe. Not enough time to palm or switch anything, unless he was a pro. But this lady isn't taking anything on faith. Eliot leans in, trying to get a look without looking too much like he's looking. Luckily the lady's pretty short, so he's got a good angle. Her fingers brush over the edge of a laptop computer, a bulging manila envelope and a couple of books. The only one with the spine up is a tourist guide to Manhattan.

The lady takes a short breath and snaps the clutch of the bag closed again. Turning to face Eliot, she gives him an extremely tight, fake smile. "Thank you."

"Not a problem, ma'am. My pleasure, in fact." Eliot sticks his hands in his pockets and sidles closer. "You new in town?"

"I am." She inhales again, lets it out, nostrils flaring and lips pressed tightly together. She's clearly trying to cool off and let it go, but oh man, is she ever pissed that the crackhead got the drop on her. Eliot can tell, mostly because he'd be pissed too.

"Me too," Eliot says, which is true as far as it goes. Most places, he doesn't get a chance to be anything but new. "A hell of a town, huh? City that never sleeps, and all."

"This is how you talk to women?" says Hardison from the peanut gallery. "Really?"

The lady's smile this time is more controlled, but-- Eliot would bet-- just as fake. "It is most impressive."

Tough gal. Eliot likes that. He wants to pat her on the back, tell her that people are unpredictable when they're high. Three out of five of Eliot's most impressive scars are from injuries he didn't even get in the line of duty or on the job, but from random fucking jackasses just like that mugger, hopped up on moonshine or meth or God only knows. He can't count the number of guys he's known who toughed their way through war zones and ended up getting dropped in bar fights or strip club parking lots. So yeah, he kinda wants to tell her not to beat herself up about it. But he also knows how he'd react to that kind of condescending crap from a stranger. He keeps it to himself.

"I'll say," Eliot says. "My name's Eliot, by the way." He sticks out his hand.

Her eyes lock onto his, warily, and then her eyes flicker over his ensemble, chosen by Sophie to look scruffy shading into outright disreputable. Eliot sighs, retracting his hand and sticking it back in his pocket. Why did he have to be playing the dealer tonight? Why couldn't he be the stockbroker, or the cowboy, or even the hipster in ladies' jeans and a keffiyeh? Women love all those guys... although the stockbroker has been suffering a drop in popularity lately. Still, even the hipster gets an acceptable amount of play. Eliot doesn't get that at all.

But still.

"While I appreciate your assistance... Eliot," says the lady. "I am not looking to make new friends."

That's the most tactful and maybe also the clearest 'Fuck off' Eliot's gotten in a long while (well, the clearest that wasn't stated in those exact words, anyway). Hardison and Parker seem to think so too, judging by the resounding hoots and shrill giggles coming over the comm.

Eliot ignores them, shrugging agreeably. He and the lady look at each other, and all of a sudden his phone rings.

"Dude, Eliot," Hardison whispers in his ear, "I gotta see this. Show me this girl."

Eliot knows that Hardison only wants the picture in order to enable further mocking opportunities, probably in the form of one of those stupid Internet cat pictures. But who cares? He digs around in his pocket, enabling the Blackberry's mini-cam with his thumb before pulling it out. He twists his wrist casually on the way up, aiming it in the lady's direction, and she-- fakes a sneeze. It's a good one. The only way Eliot knows it's fake is because there's no way she just happened to sneeze at _just the right moment_ to block his shot, bending at the waist and bringing up a hand to cover her face. Just no way. Nobody's that lucky.

Eliot has the phone to his ear. He stares. The lady stares back, eyebrows raised. She looks expectant, and just a bit mocking. God damn but that mugger must've been on the good drugs, or maybe just blind. Sure, she's small, and a woman alone, but if Eliot had been going to mug somebody tonight, he wouldn't have picked this lady. Not on a dare.

"Nice," Hardison informs him over the comm. "But despite what you see in the movies? I can't actually extrapolate a face from a blurry picture of the top of somebody's head."

Eliot grits his teeth. Meanwhile, the lady has side-stepped him, edging off to Eliot's left without breaking eye contact. The phone's to Eliot's right ear. There's no way he can aim the camera at her again without being hella obvious.

He watches the lady move out of his reach, and considers. He knows he could head back to the team's temporary HQ and sketch up a head shot for Hardison to run through his databases. Hell, he probably wouldn't even need the picture. Five-three, five-four, black or mixed, speaks English just a little too much like an American to actually be one-- it might take ten whole minutes, but Hardison could probably find her. This lady is _definitely_ somebody. Somebody's got to know her.

That's the easy way, though. And when has Eliot ever gone for the easy way?

He grins and decides, just for the hell of it, to be really goddamn obvious. He'll get a picture, or she'll punch him. Either way, he's gonna count it as a win. He turns to face her head-on, aiming the camera lens directly at her face. "Hey! Smile pretty."

Her hand is already coming up, fingers splayed to block her face, and the motion doubles to effectively mask the shift in her posture that usually would've served to warn Eliot that she was about to launch a kick. As it is, the pointy toe of her shoe catches him right on the tendon, and his fingers loosen and the phone goes flying.

A fight, then. Eliot grins and steps out onto the sidewalk, rolling his head to one side, then the other.

"Excuse me. What the hell is going on out there?" Nate snaps over the comm. "Eliot!"

"Who are you?" Eliot demands. "Where'd you learn how to fight?"

"Who are you, Eliot?" the lady inquires, coolly. "What do you want?"

"That's a good question," Eliot says. "Everybody says world peace, you know, but I'm not sure it would--" While he's talking, the lady shifts her shoulder-bag so that the strap goes across her chest, the bag hanging at one hip. Eliot breaks off in the middle of a phrase, snapping a kick towards her opposite knee. He's being a gentleman, which goes against his instincts (during a fight, anyway) but the bag is clearly important to the lady, and even though she just kicked his phone into a wall, he doesn't want to break her stuff just to satisfy his curiosity.

She skips back, shifts close again, throws a punch that Eliot easily dodges. He feels really good about that until her other fist lands in his gut. He coughs, doubling over-- he hasn't missed a feint like that since grade school, what the _hell_. The lady follows up with an elbow strike to his head and Eliot barely blocks it, rattled. He shifts into a defensive stance, and she moves back, not quite out of range. Just close enough for him to land another good kick, in fact, but Eliot holds back. He doesn't see what the trick is but that doesn't mean there isn't one. He shifts his gaze to her eyes, just for a second, and is surprised to see that she's staring him right in the face, not watching his feet or his shoulders. He winks at her, and she blinks.

Eliot takes advantage of the moment and tries to kick her in the knee again, thinking maybe she'll duck back like she did last time. If she does, he can use the momentum, land on his other foot, kick her in the head, maybe-- but bizarrely, she steps into the kick rather than out of his range, and Eliot's foot jabs harmlessly between her knees just as the heel of her hand smacks into his sternum. He coughs again, disbelievingly. She bends, hooks a hand behind his knee and pulls, and he's flat on his back.

What the fuck-- Eliot rolls, trying to tangle his ankles with hers, take her down. But she goes with/against him again, falling but not getting tangled, like this is a dance they've practiced a thousand times. She lands hard on his chest, elbows slamming into his ribs, then tucks into a tumble and ends up on her feet, one ballet flat planted firmly on his neck. Eliot feints like he's going to roll left but she leans more of her weight onto his throat. He plants his hands flat on the sidewalk, tipping his head back in surrender.

She nods acknowledgement. "Who do you work for?"

"Nobody," Eliot croaks, and the ballet flat presses down harder.

"Um... do you need... Should I send in some backup?" Hardison asks, very diplomatically. "You know, just to. Um. Eliot?"

Eliot chokes, starting to see stars around the edges of his vision, and the lady bends carefully and gives him an abbreviated pat-down. She looks surprised not to find a gun in his jacket, and she lets up a little. Eliot sucks in a rough breath.

"I work alone," he growls, hoping Hardison will get the hint.

"Are you with the trust?" she snaps.

"Never heard of it," Eliot says honestly. Her eyes narrow, but for some reason she seems to believe him, and she eases up a little more.

"What do you want, then?"

"Your phone number?" Worth a shot. The ballet flat presses down again. "Ack." Okay, maybe not. "How 'bout the phone number of your dojo?" he manages to gasp out.

She stares down at him, a few loose strands of hair framing her stern face. After a moment she steps back, and Eliot sits up cautiously, rubbing his throat.

"Seriously. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"You've never been there," says the woman. "You never will be."

Eliot laughs hoarsely. "Try me."

"As I said," says the woman, tucking one loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not looking to make new friends. Nor am I looking for new students." It's dark and all, but there's a glint in her eye that makes Eliot suspect she's laughing at him. "No matter how promising."

Okay, she's definitely laughing at him.

Well... what can Eliot say? He's always been kinda weak for a girl with a glint in her eye. He grins, boosting himself up to perch on the stoop. "They say diamonds are a girl's best friend," he tries, but this shot goes wide of the mark. If she's on the same job that the team is-- if she's after the diamonds-- then she's doing a damn good job of looking clueless. "Or maybe you're not lookin' for those kinda friends either."

The lady cocks her head. "I... suspect I was not your intended target."

"Lady, I got no idea who you are," Eliot says honestly, "except that you're gorgeous and I've never seen your fighting style before, _anywhere_. If you were just good-lookin', I could let it go. But the way you fight--" He shakes his head, smiling.

A thought seems to occur to the lady, and she glances away. Eliot leans to the side, trying to catch her really smiling. But when she looks back at him there's barely a hint of amusement in her eyes, and he might even be imagining that. "I have a friend who trains at Nowak's on West 27th," she says. "He has been complaining about the lack of decent sparring partners."

"Here in the city?"

"Here on this continent," she says, a little sardonic but mostly serious. Nice.

"Sounds like a guy after my own heart," Eliot says. "How will I know him?"

"You'll know him." Now her mouth does quirk up in a smile, and this time she doesn't try to suppress it. Eliot swallows hard. After a moment, she nods at him and turns to go.

"Hey! Who should I say sent me?" Eliot calls after her. "Hey!"

But she keeps on walking and doesn't turn back.

"Damn," Eliot says quietly, watching her go.

He's been ignoring the whispering and quiet chatter on the comm; he's got a lot of practice at blocking it out during fights. He tunes back in now, just in time to hear Parker whisper "--got a visual. Wait, that can't be right. Eliot, is that her? Brown suit, black bag? She's so little!"

"Wait, this girl has better wushu than Eliot _and_ she's not even bigger than him?" Hardison sounds way too delighted. Eliot glances around, irritated, trying to spot whatever ledge Parker's hanging from by her toes, but the rooftops above are full of shadows and he gives up with an annoyed grunt. "How little are we talking?"

"Tiny little!"

"I see her ... Goodness, she is tiny," Sophie chimes in, taken aback. "Actually, she looks like somebody's mother. Eliot, have you been feeling all r--?"

"She does not!" Eliot hisses under his breath. "And I'm fine!" He watches for a few final seconds as the lady reaches the corner and turns, disappearing from sight. He sighs, slumping back against the steps. Leaning back on his elbows and sucking in air, he tries not to wheeze too loudly over the comm.

"Sophie's right, that is totally the I'm-a-mom-but-I-still-look-good 'do," Hardison says helpfully. "That teeny lil' sister is somebody's momma, and she still kicked your butt."

"Shut up."

"Too bad her friend is a dude," Hardison adds. "Oh, but maybe you could ask him if your teeny tiny lady friend's got a big sister. We could double date!"

"Hardison--" Eliot begins, and then Nate cuts in.

"Eliot," Nate says in his his Wait Till Daddy Gets Home, Oh Wait _I'm_ The Daddy And I Am Home voice... Eliot groans. "What the hell was that?"

"I've never seen that fighting style before!"

"And?"

_And?_ Really? Eliot's gotta explain this?

"And _I've never seen that fighting style before_," he says, slow and hard and meaningful. He straightens up, brushing himself off. He's cool. He's all right.

It's not even midnight, and he's not short of breath. Not much anyway. He heads off towards the main street, in the opposite direction from the lady.

He's limping a little. Whatever. He's fine.

"Okay," Nate says wearily, "now what?"

"Please," Hardison says, and Eliot grins. "Man's got a gym to join."

"Damn betcha," says Eliot, and limps on down the block.


End file.
